Gedeon didn't like alcohol, nor could he comprehend the human contingency upon it; century upon century of similarly foul-seeming liquid. The taste, even present in bottles containing a meagre three or four percent, was repugnant, the effects well documented and negative. However, the truly vile aspect as far as Gedeon was concerned was the wretched smell, it was constantly encompassing, it festered in the breath of its consumers and sat like a rancid cloak upon their clothing. Every time he was forcibly made to interact with an intoxicated human, the alien curled his nose as the stench reached him, swallowing down an ever bubbling instinct to merely strike both the substance and its abusers off the grimy rock.
Naturally, the most recent time he had stalked his way into the Hamilton's, the smell had hit him like a wall - some alcohol smeared, crumbling, cheap pub wall. Gedeon barely stopped himself short of retching as he inclined his head towards the direction of the living room, towards the culprit. Dean Hamilton sprawled - haphazard upon his sofa, one hand still loosely furled about the neck of a clear, blue-trimmed bottle.
Gedeon scowled. His nostrils flaring in distaste.
"I mean… Dean's almost an alkie?" Julian had once offered him, lips drawn in a flat, contemplative line. He had picked up idioms and terminology from modern human vernacular which Gedeon had yet to grasp and so the sentence had him bristling, gums bared in some rendition of animalistic distaste.
With a wince, the other alien had corrected himself, head lolling to one shoulder as he recollected: "He drinks a fair bit. You know, alcohol, that is. No one really knows… 'cept Bex and me, maybe? But that's it. He's good at hiding it - but he doesn't half reek of the stuff after a while, y'know after his kids have conked out. It's primarily shit.. Carling? Straight absolut when he's at his worst." His features warped in disgust and Gedeon had sniffed, seemingly nonplussed at the time. Knowing vacantly that one was much stronger than the other.
Julian had been right, evidently, the smell which permeated the palette of Gedeon's mouth was unyielding even by alcohol's standards. Determined to eliminate the source before he enacted his kidnapping, he slunk into the front room. Standing, squared and steely grey in the swathes of moonlight, staring down at the tangled limbs of the man snoring on the couch before him. Gedeon's eyes fell upon the offending bottle. He scowled at the thing, emanating petty vitriol - when everything, from lifeforms to moulded glass, seemed as pathetic as one other to him it was easy to lather unreasonable distaste upon the inanimate.
Being something far beyond this planet's comprehension Gedeon's sentiment towards mankind was not unlike the way he'd watch humans treat pests or inanimate objects. You didn't reason with a gnat or a bottle of ‘Sainsbury’s vodka’ - you couldn't. You kill a gnat, shatter a bottle. Humans, as far as the alien was concerned, were more comparable to bugs than himself, he'd no more reason with a person than a gnat or cheap glass bottles of alcohol. And currently all of his irritation flared towards the acrid smell of vodka.
With little concern for being spotted (he had been in and out of the Hamilton’s home for months at this point, learning about the layout and more importantly: Dean’s feeble eyesight when in some drunken stupor - oh, to mime being a coat in the man’s hallway), Gedeon picked his way around the carpet and then dropped to his haunches alongside the other man, far more agile than his human guise led most to believe. After doing a momentary sweep of the landscape, he reached out and pried the other’s digits from about the bottle, with slow, measured movements. Dean snuffled briefly, the grip that his other hand had on a framed picture tightened, close to his chest. And the hold he had on the bottle grew lax. Gedeon pulled it free, crossing through to the kitchen and pouring the lot down the sink, his nose wrinkled at the pungent smell. He set down the bottle, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Dean's snoring form.
Human beings were one particular example of squalor that the alien felt inklings of pity for; they lolled about on the planet in abject misery and then wandered off the mortal coil in lieu of nothing grander. He huffed complatively as he stood watching Dean for just a moment, until the man turned in his sleep and jared Gedeon from his observation. He felt a flicker of resentment, annoyed at himself for having a second of consideration here.
Shaking himself, he briskly went about putting his plan into action and skulked upstairs; gathering his next 'meal'. The rungs of transposons harboured within the Hamilton's genome were the only things capable of ensuring his survival. And if that meant striking two humans from the face of the universe then Gedeon gladly would. It was easy enough to leave, with the children unconscious and his own method of transport back; a system allowing for living matter to be relocated wherever at will - far too complex for either snoozing child to appreciate apparently, much to his chagrin.
Once these children were gone, once he'd messed with Dean a little bit - had himself a laugh, Gedeon would let himself sink into comfortable obscurity again - as far as it pertained to this planet.
That was the intention anyway. After intercepting a few calls and miming an air of authority under the guise of a detective, he found a plausible way to insert himself into Dean's life.
Not that he needed to pantomime authority in itself but because humans felt the need to play at being cordial while expressing it, he had to adjust as necessary. Strange culture.
There were consequences to this, however, that he did not initially foresee. Gedeon would declare to any lifeform listening that he was a god, and while he did have power beyond the comprehension of most, he was not omniscient. Although he would never admit it; that fact made him infallible. And so he did not anticipate embedding himself into the ruse for such a long time and with such ease.
Fiddling with the system the police used to get himself 'hired' was simple enough: hijacking it to weasel one 'Gedeon Blackwell' amongst the litany of names of employees. Then merely inserting himself amongst the people, carrying with him such gravitas that few bothered questioning his presence. The only challenge he received was a portly, unpleasant man asking if he had recently transferred.
That much carried him through to Dean's phone call early the morning after Gedeon had plucked his children from the planet. He intercepted it with such frantic delight that he could barely damp down the smile he bore when he spoke, trying to smooth over the panicked father on the end of the line, disingenuous though it was. It wasn't often he could have fun like this.
Dean watched drivel, from the first time Gedeon decided to interject himself into the man's evening routine, that much was evident.
"It's mostly just keeping me conscious, detective. If you want something else on, I think the remote's on top of the telly." Came the weary acceptance when Gedeon had lavished criticism upon the nonsense blaring in the background between their brief exchanges. Dean was deeply engrossed in marking streets and houses they'd 'checked' from a list on his laptop, taking languid sips from a bottle of peroni as he worked. Gedeon had been fighting the urge to bat the bottle from the man's hand all evening.
He had also bluffed his way through most of the conversation, he had checked nowhere after promising to that morning - he wasn't about to start performing redundant tasks for this human. "Maybe Corrie is on, if you want that? I dunno… check ITV."
Gedeon rolled his eyes once Dean turned back to his laptop, but got up from the sofa to flick through channels regardless, as he was still playing a role. Although not the most adept with every television - for humans were constantly altering the way in which these things worked - Gedeon was able to navigate the remote just fine. He hit the buttons and flicked his gaze over the names that popped up as he switched channels, stopping when: 'Channel 3, ITV - Coronation Street' was on screen. It was potentially as trite as the other things on, but he made no complaint as he sunk back down into the armchair.
While he'd been doing that, Dean had dipped in and out of the room to grab an ale, cracked it and let the stench permeate the space. Not bothering to disguise it, Gedeon directed a sour expression towards him, watching with pleasure as Dean withered under his expression.
"More booze, mister Hamilton?"
"It's only my third-"
Gedeon scoffed, leaning back in the armchair he'd cajoled his way into, watching with barely smothered glee as Dean took the bait and puffed up to his full height.
"Oh for fuc- sod you! You smarmy git! You don't know me or my life- so stop lounging about and judging any of it." Dean tightened his clutch on the can, looked as though he were debating whether to drench him in it, before turning and marching off upstairs. Gedeon could hear him stomping, slamming doors, and setting the can down brutally wherever he moved. It was pathetic, truly. Amusingly so.
He initially wondered if he should follow him up, snarl at him, make him cower for such indiscretion... 'Didn't know him! HAH.' Gedeon could pick Dean Hamilton apart with his teeth and predict every sinew he would pull out! But he didn't want to halt the game he'd constructed so soon, there was nothing he enjoyed more than toying with the other man's emotions.
Plenty of beings; Earth's or otherwise, were entertaining in their volatility but human beings Gedeon found particularly intriguing. Maybe it would be better to leave, have the man grovelling for his reappearance in order to find his children or perhaps it would be easier to stay - what would Dean do? The possibility of another spat was too enticing for the alien to just slink out now. So, he simply crossed over to Dean's sofa and lay down on that - no need to worsen the measly form he inhabited by crunching himself into a ball in the armchair to sleep. At least it came easily to him.